Another Test
by SKSuncloud
Summary: John's been living with Sherlock for two years and is fed up with the drugs. It starts off as an intervention...


**A/N- **The first episode of season 2 of Sherlock was amazing. It was amazing, and we still don't know anyone's sexuality! Hurrah! Because John said he was straight, but then he reacted every single time Irene made a move on Sherlock, and Sherlock seemed to be responding to Irene, but he also got defensive about John and really once the episode ended it seemed a lot more clear that Sherlock was more emotionally attached to John and more sort of… businessly attached to Irene… To me, anyway. I had to write this. It's just a bit of something that involves drugs and is based on the BBC version portrayals. Enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>Another Test<strong>

* * *

><p>John Watson walked into the room, stopped, and groaned deeply. He wheeled around a full circle and then sighed, throwing his coat toward the chair quite violently.<p>

"You're home early," Sherlock said, very astutely.

Watson walked over and picked up the kit that was balanced on Sherlock's knee. "Good thing, too! What do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock looked up at John very pointedly. He didn't move to grab the kit back, he just stared into John's eyes and then looked back down at his own arm and replied cheerfully, "Drugs. And would you shut the door, please, John?"

Watson snorted indignantly and then threw the box on the ground. The contents flew out and scattered on the floor. The impact left a dent. Sherlock looked up at John rather than down at the mess on the floor. "No need to be mad at a box, John."

"No need? I'm not…" he wheeled around again and then did go over and shut the door before coming back and standing in front of Sherlock, placing a hand on either armrest of the chair and leaning down so their faces were level. "I'm not mad at the box. I'm mad at you. What the hell do you think you're doing to yourself?"

"I _know_ that I am injecting a stimulant into my blood stream after which point I plan to become a vegetable in this chair for at least the next twenty four hours."

"W-why?"

Sherlock's tongue rolled between his teeth. The needle was still poised above his arm, just above where John's hand was now gripping. The two of them had been on edge all week. He'd expected John to have gone out on a date to put some distance between them because he'd seemed on the brink of ripping Sherlock's head off that morning. "No cases are coming in. None. Even your stupid blog isn't helping and I'm bored, John. I'm a bored, helpless, sociopath and I can't stand not having something to think about, so I turn to drugs when you're not around. Does that make you happy?"

He moved to lower the needle and John's hand shot up into the crook of Sherlock's arm. His skin was so pale and the veins were standing out brightly underneath the tourniquet.

"No cases? Is that all you care about?"

"Yes. Clearly, or else I wouldn't be shooting drugs into my bloodstream, would I?" he replied tartly, trying to pull his arm back.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself!"

"Oh? And why not?" Sherlock looked Watson in the eyes. Only two weeks before they'd been chasing down a lunatic arsonist, only interesting to Sherlock because of what he was trying to burn. There had been fire in the detective's eyes then, figuratively as well as literally. He'd been energetic, amazing. A policewoman had flirted and slipped him her number and he'd set it on the table and never touched it since.

Those eyes were blank now. They weren't darting, they weren't deducting, they were just waiting for an excuse from John. Any excuse. Any reason.

John pushed himself off from the chair, letting go of Sherlock's arm. "God. How do you live if someone's not watching you?" John asked. The needle didn't move, and Sherlock's eyes followed his companion.

"I suppose that's why everyone feels they must always be watching me."

"You can't just do this to yourself. That stuff's addictive."

"And yet I'm not addicted. Really, John, give me more credit than that."

Still the needle wasn't moving. They'd lived together for two years and John barely felt like he knew his friend. Sometimes he felt like he was with the most incredible person in the world, and other times he wanted to punch him in the face, but then there was this. Then there were the times when he wanted to stop him, wanted to just… to make everything alright. It was hard to know how, when it came to Sherlock Holmes. It was hard to know when you were helping and when you were just pushing yourself away. He wasn't delicate, he was just different. Knowing Sherlock Holmes had a _Handle with Care_ label attached to it. He could survive fine on his own, but he needed someone. For the past two years John had become more and more invested in being that someone.

"Don't you know people care about you?"

Sherlock raised both eyebrows. "Clearly."

"_I_ care about you."

He barely saw it. Observant or not, it was there. That slight flicker of the eye. There was no way to know for sure. No way to figure Sherlock out.

"Do you?" Sherlock asked. His lips parted slightly and hung there. His chest rose with his breath and his feet slid ever so slightly backward under the chair.

"Yes. Of course. I live with you, don't I? I mean… sometimes I feel like I'm your… your housewife! And other times I feel like I'm your mother, and sometimes… sometimes I fancy us friends, you know?"

"Aren't we?" his voice was still level, but the arm holding the needle had dropped. The point of it was touching his skin, but he was no longer poised like before.

"And then other times," John turned away now. His voice was raising, louder and louder. "Other times I just want to… tear your clothes off and take you on the floor! Or… something."

He realized what he'd said as it was slipping out and he placed his hand over his eyes as though not seeing would somehow stop what he was saying from coming out.

There were several long seconds and when it came the voice was softer and more cautious than expected. "Excuse me?" Sherlock asked.

Watson couldn't make himself turn around to face him. He let out a breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't… I didn't mean that…"

Sherlock inhaled. "Of course not."

Now Watson turned. "No. I mean. I mean, I don't know." He reached for the nearest chair and sat himself down in it, turning it to face Holmes.

Sherlock's eyes were back on the needle. His fingertips were starting to go blue from the tourniquet. His lips were set very straight across his face.

Watson continued, "I mean… I'm not gay. I like women."

"Clearly. You've brought home so many," Sherlock retorted. He moved to press the needle into his skin and Watson reached out and took the blue fingered hand, which made him stop and look up.

"But it's different. With you… I don't feel with them how I do around you." He was hoping Sherlock would answer, but he didn't. He blinked and his cheeks worked like he was mulling over a thought and his eyes scanned John's face, but he didn't speak, so John continued.

"Sometimes… I just… I don't…" he breathed in deep, "I don't feel the same way around women as I do around you. I don't… get turned on by them. … No. That's not what I mean. I mean, I do. It's just…"

Sherlock took a breath.

"I really care about you, Sherlock. You make my life exciting, even when you're driving me crazy with your seriously idiotic quirks. Sometimes I think I'm more… attracted to you… than I've ever been to anyone else."

Sherlock didn't move for long while. His hands had gone limp and his face was soft and looked younger with his eyes opened wide. He breathed several times and then looked away from Watson. "You're not going to stop me."

John dropped Sherlock's hand, stood quickly and kicked the chair he'd been sitting in, which hurt him so he winced and stumbled back. "Damnit, Sherlock! What if I've fallen in love with you?" he yelled.

Sherlock wouldn't make eye contact. He was staring in the opposite direction and said softly, "There's no way."

"Why not?" All this time wondering whether Sherlock were gay or straight, he couldn't be on the wrong side of the fence now, of all times. He just couldn't. John covered his mouth with his hand.

"You just can't. It's impossible."

No drawn out explanation. No quirky remark. Nothing like Sherlock Holmes. John bit his lower lip.

"Let me kiss you," John whispered.

"… What?"

"Let me kiss you."

"John, that's hardly appropriate."

But John was resolved. "Let me do it. Let me kiss you and prove to myself whether you've turned me or not."

"Turned you what?"

"Turned me gay!"  
>"You aren't…"<p>

"I'm confessing my feelings for you! We're having a confession. That's what this is. Let me kiss you."

Sherlock had put the needle down entirely. He was resting beneath his fingers on the opposite arm of the chair from his awaiting arm. He looked up at John tentatively and searching him up and down, scanning his features. This was just some weird sort of intervention. He'd come to understand people were attracted to him, but not John. No…

But he was moving closer. He stood off to the side of the chair and touched Sherlock's cheek, turning his face so that they were facing. He swallowed, and Sherlock watched the way his eyes questioned their actions. He hung on to the pause as their breath met just before Watson turned his head and pressed his lips against Sherlock's.

The needle rolled off and shattered on the floor.

Sherlock pressed back, closing his eyes. In a moment, John pulled away and they looked at each other, then his lips pressed into Sherlock's again and he moved himself around to the front of the chair. Sherlock leaned forward to stay with the kiss as John knelt on the floor. He had placed a hand on either side of Sherlock's face, but now the one was running down his neck, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. The hand ran down his arm and those calloused army fingers undid the knot in the tourniquet and let it fall away.

Sherlock's eyes shot open at that moment, and John's tongue brushed between his lips. Sherlock pulled back and they stared at each other. His hand convulsed at the sudden return of blood, and John's hand moved to cover it. John's eyes were very serious. Sherlock's cheeks were flushed. He looked beautiful. He was beautiful. John had blogged about him enough times. He wasn't a stranger to Mr. Holmes' more captivating features, he'd just never thought of them that way before.

"Stop that," John whispered.

"What?"

"Stop analyzing it."

"I'm not…"

"Like hell…" John pulled Sherlock's face down toward his own again and stretched up into the kiss. He didn't know why, all he knew was that all the frustrations that had been building up for the past two years felt like they were being realized. He hadn't even known he had frustrations to realize but when Sherlock's hand touched his arm he had that rush again of wanting to take Sherlock right there. He didn't know he wanted this so much. He pulled away.

"Stop it."

"Stop…" Sherlock was hanging on the word but unresponsive. His eyes were darting around. Their voices were both breathless.

"Stop trying to deduct anything from this. Just let it go."

"I can't… you're trying to fool me, John. You're trying to stop me."

"What do you mean?"

"You're trying to use the power you have over me to keep me from shooting coke."

There it was. _The power_. It was true. John kissed Sherlock's lips again and the detective's eyes rolled back in his head slightly. His pupils were dilated. His pulse was quick under John's fingers where the blood was inflating the capillaries of Sherlock's left hand.

"I already have stopped you," John pointed out. He stood and pressed in to Sherlock's lips, forcing his head back against the back of the chair. "Now let me take your mind off it."

He kissed and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and the response and the touch he was receiving back… it was almost worthwhile. Everything that was flooding between them now almost made up for all the little things he couldn't stand. It was a more physical, more tangible rush than what he got when Sherlock did something amazing at someone else's expense that made him laugh, or when he remembered something minutely specific about Watson that made his heart flutter for an instant. He hadn't even realized how important those things were. Sherlock's hand was on his cheek now, cupped beneath his jaw. He had always thought he was excited with hope for Sherlock's humanity, but it had never occurred to him that it meant so much. He hadn't realized that every time he'd seen that number sitting on the table and wanted to throw it away that maybe he was just jealous. Jealous of the possibility that there might be someone else out there, a woman, who could fill the exact stop in Sherlock's life where Watson belonged.

He leaned down into Sherlock, wondering if it was even possible for them both to share the chair. Sherlock turned his head to the side and pressed his forehead against John's, then spoke. "I'm surprised you didn't try this ages ago, if you had me figured out."

_Figured out._ John moved his head back a bit so he could see Sherlock's face. "I didn't. I didn't have anything figured out. You'd have known." Sherlock raised an eyebrow in agreement, but his eyes weren't meeting John's. "Unlike you, I don't have a plan. I'm making this up as I go along."

He ran his fingers down Sherlock's long, smooth neck and undid the first two buttons of his shirt, watching his eyes for any sign. Sherlock touched the hand and the fingers stopped working.

"Don't."

Watson stopped. Their eyes were still dilated, their hearts were still pounding. Sherlock couldn't tell him he didn't want to now. Not now. God, please not now. "Why not?" he asked.

"I can't."

"Of course you can," Watson tried to smile but his face was falling. Sherlock even smelled good. Why would he smells so good? Didn't he just say Watson was his weakness? Was this not what he meant?

"No," Sherlock insisted, and he gently pushed Watson off of him and stood so they were both off the chair now, facing each other, so close together… it wouldn't take much. Sherlock could wrap his arms around Watson. He could kiss the doctor's neck. He could smell him. He could find out what he looked like under his well-ironed shirt… under his pants. The idea was more terrifying than he'd expected. "Please, John. I can't."

He hadn't expected Watson to be indignant. "Why can't you?"

Sherlock pushed Watson backward so they were standing a full arms length apart. John knocked his hands off of his shoulder and Sherlock's heart flopped. All he'd wanted was to slip into a comatose state and float off for the rest of the day. Now he was hoping he didn't look as though he were going to cry.

"Because, John, I may be the most intelligent man that ever lived, but you _know_ me."

"I thought I did for a second there…"

"_You know _me," he reiterated, "You know that when it comes to social interactions I have practically the mentality of a toddler."

"You kissed me back."

"I can figure out the actions, of course I can. I can deduce and I can understand the basic chemistry and I know the difference between… one feeling and the next, but I don't know this. I don't know what I'm doing here, John. I'm terrified. I've never…" his voice trailed off, his eyes trailed away, and then, "I need you too much."

Watson watched Sherlock's eyes. A high functioning sociopath… he really had never had a relationship. Even Irene Adler… even then he probably didn't even know what he was feeling. And that jealousy that Watson was just now realizing he had… Was she just his equal all along? What if he was never in love?

"I'm not going to leave you," Watson assured him.

"I don't want it to be complicated, John. I just want you here. As my friend. As my companion. I can't handle more."

Watson looked at the ground, at the smashed syringe on the floor and the legs of the chair over which he'd just been standing when he realized he wanted Sherlock Holmes for himself. Every inch of his body… "What if I _want_ more?" he asked.

"… Then I'll duct tape you to a chair and lock all the doors to keep you here."

Watson laughed despite himself. He would, too. "Well, that sounds sociopathic."

Sherlock corrected him, "No, that sounds psychopathic. You're lucky I'm not that."

"I _do_ want more, though," John admitted. "I can't just pretend this didn't happen."

Sherlock nodded. "You'll have to be patient with me, John, but I will try my best. I also… I would rather not lose you."

John bit the inside of his cheek to calm down a smile. "Maybe next time… spend time with me rather than turning to drugs?"

"Yes, well… yes." He smiled, "I love spending time with you."

"Well then," John breathed, "I guess this has been sufficiently awkward. I'll have to call home and let everyone know that both their kids turned out gay."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and bowed his head, then looked at Watson almost sheepishly. "Just for me, though?"

"What?"

"Are you only… with men… is it just me?" his eyes were moving rapidly.

John thought about it a moment, then nodded, "Just you."

Sherlock stepped forward and ever so gently placed a kiss on Watson's lips, which was returned.

"Well," Sherlock said after the kiss broke, "I think… I'll go to bed early."

John glanced at the window, then at the clock. It was only about 3:00pm. He didn't want to argue. He won more than one battle for the day, it seemed like, and that was enough. That was more than enough.

Sherlock moved as though he were about to walk away and then added, "My door will be unlocked."

John's heart leapt several inches in his chest and he pulled Sherlock in by the waist and face and kissed him again. Sherlock kissed him back and then, like an embarrassed teenager who'd been caught, he turned shyly and slunk off to his room, glancing back just once. Watson would give him a while and then check the door, just to see.

For now, he sighed happily and turned, sinking into the chair where the detective had been sitting just moments before. It had cooled for the most part, but John had never noticed how much it smelled like him. He knew he'd have to clean up the shattered glass. He'd have to dispose completely of the residual cocaine, and he knew it wouldn't be the last time he'd have to work to keep Sherlock clean, but it was all such a relief suddenly. Just think? All that time and he never knew he'd find himself in love with a socially incompetent _man_. He ran his fingers through his hair and licked his lips. He'd have to lock the front door soon. He didn't know what he'd say on his blog. Maybe he didn't even need the blog anymore…

_Of all the people on the planet_, he thought, _John Watson, and the one-and-only Sherlock Holmes_.


End file.
